Captor, Captive
by Late to the Party
Summary: What if a certain ward of Gorion failed to escape 'Chateau Irenicus? What if Imoen got out? What would happen to those left within? When a wizard's lair becomes their whole world? Who then becomes the captor, the captive? AU. (M for themes, non-graphic content)
1. Entry 1

**_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does._**

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Entry 1

My memory is slowly returning. It is something that has come by itself, slowly. I found my old journal, the pages intact, written in my hand. I have read through it, studied it, begun to relearn who I am. I have created a new section, beginning with this entry. Perhaps it will lend itself to some answers, yet I fear only questions will arise. I hope to make it my own, hope to be my own self, and will begin again.

As I have been unable to restore what was taken, I have had to make do with what is at hand, substituting what I can. No, this is not the way to begin a journal. My thoughts are conflicted, clouded. I must try and stem their flow, and order will follow naturally.

My name… I do not remember. My journal does not say, but I have gleaned what others called me. _'"Sacks", Immy would say, "You're a loveable fool."_

I remember her. I remember the others, vaguely. Through a fogged dream. I remember many things, places, faces, people, details, but fleeting. My old journal has another's hand, between my entries, in the margins. Sketches, doodles. I had noted the odd exchange, here and there. What I do not know is why.

I find myself in this… place. This place without day or night. I remember pain. I remember eyes behind a mask of crinkled flesh, eyes so blue they bored through my thoughts. I remember laughing, croaking, saying 'the joke's on you'. What had he called me? 'Child of Bhaal'. Immy. Not me. That much I can recall. I laughed and laughed, and he shocked me, chilled me with his foul magic, so cold, so very, very cold. Then hot. I remember. But I couldn't stop laughing. There was a letter, a letter addressed to Imoen. Yes, that was her name. Her name, not mine.

He left me there, in that cage. Swinging.

I'm in his chambers now. A beautiful place. Such beauty is out of place. The bedroom of a prince. Such finery, such elegance. Could these have belonged to a man of such brutality? Sarevok had taste. Yes, I remember him. But his chambers had been dressed by… what was her name? The harlot. No, not a harlot. His lover. C… Cyth-something? Cythandria? She had golden hair, green eyes, and skin so fair… why do I remember her? It was a dream, a lifetime ago. No, not a dream. She wanted to become a duchess, the bride to a god. We found her. How did we find her? My journal says I went ahead to Candlekeep; Candlekeep, I don't remember. Why is that name important? It says I found Sarevok there, with his father. It is written ironically. There is a note to the side laughing at it through a face. Could I have drawn it? It reads Imoen stayed behind. There were others with her, but I don't know who. There is another face. It looks gleeful.

Did she have another lover, apart from Sarevok? There is a sordid doodle, and an arrow with Cythandria's name on. _'Ooooh'_ , is written beside it, and an angry armoured man bearing Sarevok's name. There is a second sketch behind it, and 'nom, nom, nom'. The armour… yes, Imoen found his arms and armour. We had hatched a plan. A mad plan. A woman had told us Sarevok was at Candlekeep. She was important to him, once. What was her name? Tamoko. Proud, with such bearing. Part of a delegation. To bring peace. A trap. She tipped us off. I remember it now. She saw us as children. So Immy and I, we hatched a plan. She stayed behind, and broke into Sarevok's chambers in the Iron Throne. I headed to Candlekeep with some of our companions to confront him. It was a trap, we knew it. But while we distracted him, Imoen found his armour. We would have our revenge. Revenge for what? But she cursed the armour.

A young paladin? Skie's brother? Eddard, I think. Was that Cythandria's secret lover? I remember Skie and Immy hit it off. There was another… Alora, yes. A halfling. They swore an oath, a pact between sisters, giggling one night, drunk on firewine and life. They would pilfer everything they could from the Iron Throne and the city that housed it; they would become richer than dragons.

What happened? Did Alora die? There was sadness, such sadness. I remember Cythandria on her knees, pleading for clemency, pleading to _me_. Why to me? I think Imoen wanted to cut her throat.

I remember Skie's tears. Was it her fault? No, Cythandria hadn't killed… Gorion. Yes. Had she masterminded it? Imoen seemed to think she had a hand in it. Encouraging Sarevok. To rid himself of… us? She hadn't meant for Gorion to die, or she hadn't cared? I… the Ducal palace. Sarevok's coronation. He entered the hall, the nobles there, their faces shifting. Yes, a coup. He had infiltrated the city's elite with those… mirror kin? Why do I know that name? Others had been slain, bribed, held captive. Some. Not all. Amn was blamed, yes, agents of Amn. We had been labelled as such. Cythandria was on her knees; chaos, yes, we sowed the seeds, and a woman, Vai, had led a charge. Armoured guards, the… a fist, enflamed. Her superior was arrested. Her commander had been replaced by him. The word… yes, Immy had rigged Sarevok's armour. Once he proclaimed himself Grand Duke, she stopped him from moving. A confession? When… the armour devoured him. It fell apart. Sarevok's coup, his plans, everything. Cythandria…

' _It was like looking at fire. The death of a Bhaalspawn.'_

The dead were piled up. In the corridors, the hallways. I remember Immy's face. She couldn't get the cage open. I told her to go. She promised to return. There was an explosion. A rumbling. Traps everywhere. They had broken into the chamber where my cage swung. Where was he? An interruption. Gone. In my dreams, I saw myself being dragged through the hallways by monsters. There were many monsters here, under his command. Many were slain.

I weary.


	2. Entry 2

Entry 2

I have no way of tracking the days. It could be night, it could be day. I have slept, a little, fitfully. I will continue where I left off. Much has been done; much more to be done. What is the difference between a golem and the dead bones and flesh returned by magic? Is it the spell that animates them? Golems of stone, of flesh, of metal; there are some here. Many are damaged beyond repair, but there are bodies everywhere. Decaying, slain, dismembered, distorted.

I found her. Or she found me. She has no name, or, she has no name to share. There is a distinction, though subtle. Once my mind could have pondered such matters without this jarring ache, a needle that flares in my skull. Or would I have made light of it? My memory was very good, once. My journal recounts how I recall insignificant details, how I read a book and recited it word for word, at least, according to Imoen's commentary. I feel certain it was exaggerated, given the little face with its tongue sticking out but there must be some hint of truth to it, surely?

She showed me to his library. This was after she calmed. At first, she screamed at me, mistaking me for _him_. I was able to charm her, whispering the incantation to soothe her to sleep. I do not know when this was, but it was many… sleeps ago. I must resort to such primitive measures. I have marked a wall with each sleep, though how long a sleep lasts is hard to gauge. Sometimes I sleep many times, and then I do not sleep at all. There are measuring devices in his chambers, but they are for other purposes.

I set her on the bed, and when she awoke, her eyes were filled with hate, then softened. We were alone. I took her hand, or did she take mine? Such things are fuzzy. I remember staring. Staring, staring, past her, beyond her. Finally, we spoke. Awkwardly at first. She was beautiful. She walked around his chambers as though they were her own. Perhaps they were. Barefoot she trod the soft carpets, with flowing, sheer gauze, draped regally, with more bearing than Tamoko, more grace than Cythandria. Her fingers brushed over the fine things, the things so out of place. She walked as if in memory, a dream belonging to another.

She sat; I watched from the edge of the bed. At the desk, at the armchair, more of a relaxed throne. I told her I did not remember. She smiled. It was strange. Sad, twisted, bittersweet, angry. She rose, her arms inviting me to draw near. Apprehension gripped me. The flash of a knife; she set the blade down on the desk, and only then did I approach. A child, she called me. A child… of her own years. She turned her flesh this way and that, asking if what I thought I saw was real. I didn't understand. She gripped my fingers and led me out of his chambers.

Many corridors had collapsed, but this one had not. His servants had not found us, but for one, a goblin cowering in a crate, cut off from its kin. She ignored it; it had been there for three days. I had not noticed, but knew something was there. A rat, I had thought. That is what I called it, but that was later, after the chamber of tubes.

There were floating bodies, naked females. A dozen tubes nearing the height of the ceiling, the width of a double door; those within varied in size, maturity. They were being grown. I began to understand, but did not understand. I asked her why. She looked at me, then laughed. Some of the tubes were damaged, one smashed. Some were unharmed. I waited to see what she would do, but she left them were they were. Shattered glass carpeted the stone floor; the rugs had stopped at the threshold of his bedchamber.

We found Rat. Simpering, terrified, knowing death was near. She might have snapped his neck without a second thought. Her stride was short, but dignified, yet unaware of its bearing. She stood composed, as if nothing could break her calm. She did not call out to him; her poise held no threat, but her still was menacing. I reached in and seized him by the throat before he could bite me. His hands found my wrist, careful not to claw at me for he saw her eyes. I did not intend to hurt him, but what was one more goblin? There were so many amongst the dead. She looked almost ready to command me. Instead, I met his gaze, asked if he wanted to live. He nodded, pathetically, gratefully. She did not roll her eyes, nor show any exasperation, but I could feel her disapproval. I warned him not to run, and carefully set him down. It gibbered its thanks. She had turned and began heading back towards _his_ chambers. I followed. After a moment, Rat trailed behind us.

She showed me the library. I think she had found it while I slept, though she walked as if she knew every inch of this place. Rat remained awed, terrified. Of her, of this place, as if he couldn't decide which was more fearsome. Fearful, dread… the words do not quite fit. He knew his way around, but she never addressed him, never used the name I offered him, the name he gratefully accepted. Perhaps he sought to betray us, to 'rise above his station'? If he ever did, she quelled any hint of it. She walked, and he ran behind her, and she stopped, pointedly waiting outside the tube chamber. He was a quivering wreck by the time they returned to the bedchamber, though she had never lain a hand on him.

We began to search through _his_ things. I catalogued them, and Rat gingerly set them where she directed. She was an elf, yet we had no designation for one another. She did not use them, rarely called out, and spoke simply when she spoke at all.

Rat discovered a golem. It stood inactive. He squeezed through the pipes and found its control room. Then he opened the hatch and we made our way inside.


	3. Entry 3

Entry 3

We found more of Rat's kind. The golem's duties involved clearing sewage. It unblocked the pipes and we found them huddling there. They took one look at her and were cowed. I stood at her side, and Rat stood slightly in front of me. If he conferred with them, I did not see it, but they decided to obey us. Perhaps it was better than starving or dying? Perhaps it was the golem we commanded?

I have not slept in some time. I have poured through the tomes in the library. I find myself wondering between words if she has no memory either. She rarely speaks, making little reference to anything. Perhaps all she knows is that tube, or perhaps, she has memories. We found ourselves in a forest. Not a dream, but trees growing underground, and their spirits, dryads, nearby. They were apprehensive. They were guarding something, but handed it over to her, backing away as if she were something to be feared, just as the goblins do. Who is she?

I have examined the tubes, but I can fathom little of their workings. I understand magic is the catalyst, but where does the power derive from, the fuel? Or is magic the fuel? I see the fluid within, see the gemstone, but how is it charged? What spells, enchantments? I should ask her, but something in me makes me hesitate.

I think more on Cythandria, on her expression. The wide-eyed terror. I see it in the goblins, even the dryads, though it is slighter. She is like the golem.

It is many sleeps later. We have found a mirror kin. It is trapped, behind glass, sealed in its own chamber. The goblins avoid it, but Rat tells me that many other monsters were slain. Vampires, I think, if I understand Rat's crude dialect. How do I proceed? Cythandria's face haunts me. I have nightmares of my face being stolen. She calms me. We share his bed, her flawless form lying beside mine in a semblance of normality. She does not sleep. I feel calmer when she is near, but I cannot bring myself to relax. When she touches me, it is to take hold of my attention, to lead and guide me. She is not pleased with the presence of a mirror kin, though the signs are slight.

I had the golem gather up the bodies. She had ignored them. Some of the goblins had fed on them. Why is it I feel so few pangs of hunger? When we dine, we dine from the dryad's trees, fruits and nuts that seem to grow year-round. We drink water from their spring, and wine from his bottles. We would eat in golden bowls and drink from golden cups, yet there is no need.

He begins to teach me. She must have spoken to him, the grey mirror kin. I find myself studying it, observing. He doesn't take her face; he shows me the faces he has taken, but will not take mine.

What else remains? There are still so many cave ins. I have begun to animate the dead. They and the goblins will fortify this place.


	4. Entry 4

Entry 4

There are grey dwarves here. They barricaded themselves inside their foundry. They lost much of their number; there are five left. We activated three more golems. The tunnels on this level have been mostly cleared. We lost two goblins today. The traps are still a threat, even in the buried rubble. It is a loss, but I reanimated them. The rest of their kind hang back. They are superstitious of the dead, but she is unconcerned. It is taxing holding so many but I have found the spells to create golems, and I have begun transferring the animated flesh to the golem ritual. There is a room that aids in such magic. This place is a maze, the maze of a madman, but it is wonderful. It has everything I could need.

There are human bodies mixed in with the dead. Their complexion has faded, their bodies stiffened, but their clothing is not of the north. I remember a little more. There are sketches of dresses, tunics, skirts. Was my journal passed around? I think Immy stole it, and she, Skie and Alora scribbled in it. There is a hand that is elegant, in script and drawing, arced lines, shading, educated. The sketches Immy has placed are rougher, but full of character. The dresses are faceless, but then there is a page of us. Immy has drawn herself, Alora. The other hand has drawn Skie, myself… and the others shared between them. Do I really look like that? There are crude trees, a sunset, a tower looking over the sea, on another page a city.

It seems certain that this place was invaded. The men are raiders. Rat confirms, and somehow, he has become the spokesperson and overseer of the goblins. They lower their eyes when she walks past, and turn away from me. Rat is the only one who will look up at my face. Am I horribly disfigured? My hands feel my face, and the bowl of water drawn from the spring shows little. The mirror kin dares not study my features, though it is a strain for him. I sat on the bed, and lowered my own eyes, staring into her face; her fingers lifted and traced my cheeks. Am I so terribly vulnerable? Or am I the monster?

The grey dwarves tried to bargain. Then they tried to kill her. The golems smashed through their barricade and seized four of them. The fifth realising they were outmatched, laid down his hammer and knife. The goblins had taken up the weapons of the fallen men, and a cache of their own. They would have fought and died at a command. It never came to that. The grey dwarves serve us. The forge's purpose was for knives. Knives _he_ used… over and over… my skull. The pain. I cannot write this.


	5. Entry 5

Entry 5

More time has passed. How much more I cannot say. The five grey dwarves are disgruntled, but they obey. She ordered the golem to take them to the tubes. They know nothing of the magic there, but they paled. They are not good at showing fear, and look down on the goblins, on the golem, but dare not look down on her. The dryads spoke of the dwarves, and I have learned a little about the dynamic of this place. He brought them together, under his will, paid them, enslaved them, and now they make shovels and picks. The goblins seem happier mining than they do scavenging, but the latter is the greater need. I have instructed Rat and the dwarves they are to work together and reinforce the halls against both invaders and collapse.

The dead have been entirely transferred and now our golems are many. We have found the two portals, but the network is inactive.

I have read most of the tomes now. The tubes are used to create and take life. They can be linked together as part of a ritual. There are two more chambers with rows and rows of them. With enough death, arcing from one tube to the next, the effect is magnified. I do not understand the purpose of this, only that it requires living bodies. The other tubes, in the first room, grow life. But the tubes can be reconfigured.

There are demons here. Somewhere. She can feel them. When she places her fingers on my head, I can feel them too. Trapped, somewhere beneath us? There is more to this place, much more. I still cannot power the tubes; I have not found the spell to charge the gem. One of the chambers is damaged, its control gem broken along with most of the tubes, but the other is whole. Could I create a copy of the dwarves? The dryads? A dryad outside of her tree? Could I… be a copy? And if I were to place the mirror kin in such a tube, and he wore the face, the flesh of another, could that face be made, grown as a person apart from the mirror kin? What could be achieved here?

The greater question is why? Why would I do any of this? What am I doing here? The journal suggests there is a threat, but that threat died with Sarevok. Didn't it? But if I am here, and Immy is gone, and so are our companions, our friends… if _he_ is still out there, the threat is real. But could he not return and take this place? There are wards, bindings… the dryads believe there are elemental beings held captive, guarding something. _She_ is unfazed. What are her purposes here? Is she content to rule, to reign over this kingdom of golems, grey dwarves and goblins? With dryads and a mirror kin? With… me?

I felt her lips against my hair. Had I always had hair? A strange question. The journal suggests I shaved it. A lark? For a wig? A disguise? I remember Nashkel. A mining town beset by troubles. It was the winged helms of the guards I recall. Amnish guards. Their helms fashioned as dragons. I remember… Mulahey. Had I become a Mulahey? Lording over kobolds, he believed himself a god. What then, am I? Her fingers curled in my hair and turned my face towards hers. Our eyes met. I could never read their expression. Did her lips brush mine, or simply press to my forehead? Had I been bewitched? Sleep took me. I write now, having woken, and still, it is unclear. A haze, not of wine, nor of magic. She is… captivating.

What does she do all day? How does she direct? Does she read? Does she… dream? What are her plans? Am I her tool, a pawn, as she plots her revenge? There is steel inside her, and ice. Have I been seduced? Does she keep me so busy, so distracted I cannot see what is right before me? Could she… love me? I dare not bring myself to ask, to even breathe such thoughts in my mind. Somehow, my pen expresses them here.

The dryads are singing. They whisper in their trees, the leaves longing to feel the breeze. The air in this place is governed by great fans. I do not know what powers them, but the golems control the doors; the air is still and stayed. We might have suffocated without the golems unblocking the pipes. Or perhaps we would have survived with the trees. How do the trees live? There is no sun here.


	6. Entry 6

Entry 6

It has been many more sleeps since I last wrote in here. There is a room, an antechamber beyond the dryad's forest. One end of their hall holds his bedchamber. The other… a sealed room. That is where she spends her days. She bid me approach. The golem had sealed the door so long ago now. It is the one place I have not entered on this floor. The portals are still down.

It is a room like no other. It is… elven. Of golden vines and leaves carved from finery. There are blues, greens, whites. It is her room. I understand a little more now.

I found myself an intruder, this private sanctum. He cannot bear to be here, she said. I wonder, began to wonder, could I be _his_ copy? She smiled at me, dismissing that notion, and gestured I sit on the bed. Her bed. Not the one we shared, but hers alone. I did. Had we become lovers in that moment? Had we become something else? Her hand touched my lip, my cheek. She wore a robe, golden, with the grace and elegance that put the dryads to shame. It held the red of fallen leaves, the rusted oranges, ambers and those of the carpeted forest floor. It was held by a clasp. As she sat beside me, it became clear she wore little else. She stared into my eyes. My own darted aside, spying for a knife on the bedside table, hidden away in a drawer, tucked within her robe.

She laughed, lightly, musically. Her eyes shone. I found myself feeling foolish, relaxing slightly, but then she brought her hand against my cheek, pressing firmly as she settled on my lap. I stared at her.

She kissed me, on each eyebrow, and then asked if I wished a child. I did not understand. Where was this coming from? I thought of the tubes, and she nodded, all mirth gone. Grimness gripped her unreadable gaze, and I wondered. Was this her revenge against him? Or was it something else? Then I asked what had been troubling me for many, many marked sleeps. _'Are you dying?'_

She bit me. Her teeth broke the skin and drawing blood, she smeared it across my stinging earlobe to my lips. I tasted the jarring bile, and realised it was the first time I had tasted my own blood since I had awoken in that cage. It was… normal. Then her nail pierced her own thumb-pad, and her blood was… odd. I could feel the magic, the sense of wrongness.

I was missing something. She was a copy, from the tube, more than flesh, yet still flesh. What would bearing my child do? Was it even possible?

She reached down and kissed my neck.

We made love in her bed.

There was no pleasure, no heat. Dispassionate, cool. I seized her wrists, stared into her eyes. Was she a mirror kin? Was she in my mind? Was any of this real? Could I still be back in that cage? Was this the face of my captor, his eyes veiled?


	7. Entry 7

Entry 7

She climbed into the tube, her belly heavily burdened. It was an abomination, some small part of me recognised, questioned. She had known how to charge the crystal; had she always known? One night, then another, until my 'seed had taken root' as the red-haired dryad commented. The dwarves seemed jealous, angry, but perhaps that was natural. How long had we all been trapped down here? They longed for meat, for ale. Instead, they had water and fruit, nuts and seeds. They had run out of ore and reworked salvaged metals, sharpening tools and crafting new ones. Each night, the golem sealed them in their foundry, sealed the door to our chambers whenever we slept.

I watched as she closed her eyes, as the fluids filled the tube. She might have been dreaming. I do not know how long it was until I left, but I sought out the mirror kin without realising. He had taught me many faces. He could not teach me the face of our captor. I asked, once, and fear gripped him, a storm of terror.

Later I commented on that phrase to her. She had smiled. Perhaps that is what we would unleash. A storm of terror. I waited for the day the portals would activate, for those on the outside to come pouring through. For us to access the air elementals and the prize they guarded, to finally be free of this place. And yet… I feared leaving. This cage had taken hold of me. Could I be a mirror kin? A taker of faces? I had amassed the invocations from the various tomes, copied them onto pages woven from the dryads hair, with ink taken from _her_ blood, her blood mixed with my own. I added pigments from the trees, enchanted it. I could have used _his_ pen, his inks, but not for this. She whispered in my ear it would be a phylactery, that this, my Grimoire would house my soul when my flesh failed. That I could be returned.

I asked her what hers was, but the look she fixed me was sad, as if she did not expect nor want to return. Why then, would she want a child, our child? Why had I given her one? She did not kiss me until after her finger had slid under my chin, and told me this was no place to raise a child. It made little sense, so I assumed she must mean we would leave. A darker thought had touched my mind; could she mean to slay our child? Could it be the missing piece in the tube's ritual?

She was gone. The firm press of her flesh had faded to a distant memory. Is this how Sarevok had felt, the pain Cythandria spoke of, as she pleaded, poured out her hurt and anguish at his rejection? The desperate, fading hope she held. But I was not Imoen. Gorion's letter was addressed to her.

I looked through my old journal. A few of my entries Immy had copied in my hand, altering key details, to tell an alternate story. I wonder if she had altered that letter. My mind began to wonder what if I was a Bhaalspawn, what that might mean. What if Imoen had chosen to protect me? If that were true, that would mean the child was a lesser spawn of me and _her_ , a copy. So then, could our captor have been right? What purpose did he have in taking us? Rat had never hinted at knowing, nor the grey dwarves, or anyone. But perhaps _she_ knew. Perhaps she had always known. Perhaps… this was his plan all along? But why?


	8. Entry 8

Entry 8

I remember the waterfall in the Cloudpeak Mountains. There had been a dryad there, her tree planted nearby it. It was a scene of wonder, of beauty. We laughed then, Imoen and I. We had got horribly lost, taken a detour from Nashkel's mines, had tried to find a 'legendary fortress' filled with gnolls. We were going to rob it blind. At least, that is what the entry in my hand said. It did not sound like my words. But there was a crude sketch of the dryad and me kissing; I found another entry which noted my cheek felt as if it had been brushed by the breeze whispering through a waterfall when we were in the mountains, so perhaps that was it?

There were other recollections, of a town named Beregost, of a rude blacksmith and an even ruder mayor. That was were we first met Vai. The sun had been dull but shone between the broken clouds. The fear of bandits was running high, as was the bloodlust. Bounties had been placed. Gallows had been erected, even a pyre. They almost suspected us of banditry, but somehow, we were able to convince Vai we were not. I don't remember how we did, but I am sure it was Imoen. We laughed in the tavern that night, regaling ourselves with the looks on their faces… then a dwarf tried to scalp us, and Vai, who had been making rounds to check on her men, had heard the ruckus and rushed inside. The dwarf swung from the gallows in the dawn, but she kept an eye on us since then. We agreed to work for her, that much I do recall. Immy even agreed with a cheerful smile.

I find myself staring at the tubes. It shouldn't be too much longer. Three which stood empty are now filled, brimming. They hold her image. How well will a copy of a copy fare? What has become of me?

It is done. There she is, and there are the copies. She has had them taken to the antechamber, and they have given birth. They seem… hollow, somehow, shadows of her, as she herself must be a shadow. She has accelerated their growth with magic, and she has restored power to the portal. I don't understand how, but she linked the tubes' crystal to the portal network. I could not have reconfigured it, nor could the golems. Or could they? How much more is she not saying?

She has yet to birth our child. It is close, very close. She brought my head to her belly, and I could feel it kicking against me. I can feel it, feel its heartbeat through her flesh. I find myself troubled over her plans. Has she discarded her copies, or the copies of our child? Do they mean nothing, less than nothing? She will send them away, or kill them, I suspect. I would be surprised if she kept them. She may even given one to the dwarves, but she is not cold enough for that, is she?

I can hear the babes' crying. She has taken one and placed it in the tubes. The strongest of the three. It is not the death rite, it cannot be. I did not hear its mother protest.


	9. Entry 9

Entry 9

There are… fifteen of them. Of… me. No, not me. They look just like me. Nine of them are girls, young women. The rest are my image. She has changed them, somehow. They look sallow, lessened inside, but they have the knowledge of the mirror kin. She has sent them out, through the portal. I fear I will not see them again.

Her copies have not lasted long. It is a symptom of the magic she used. They waned, sapped of life before they had ever lived. How long will the fifteen last? They are stronger, rawer, almost golem-like. The other two babes have grown quickly, left in the dryads' care. I do not think she believes they will last long, but she is watching, waiting.

Our own grows slowly. She keeps her out of sight, sealed in a warded chamber, far from the copies, dwarves and the rest of our followers.

She has ordered the goblins through the portal, along with the golems, and each time, they return with more and more resources. They have established a camp in a forest, perhaps at the foot of the Cloudpeaks. They carried the second portal through and established it as a link. When did I lose control? Was I ever in control? She seems set on her path now, with little time for me. She wastes few kisses now, but then, she will stop, consider me, and take me to her bed, perhaps to pacify me? She brings me books, has them brought. I find I whittle away the days in study, building up the Grimoire. I feel… things are not long in coming. Something is changing. I want to find Imoen; I have been on the verge of asking, but something in me stops.

She has taken the dryads' seeds and through the golems, has planted them in our enclave. There are walls being built. The local wildlife has stayed away. What is she doing? I need to find out.

She has told me the news. Saradush has fallen. The rumours of the Bhaalspawn, she explained, are true. The wars are rife. There is chaos in the south. She has felt forces beyond Amn stir, in the forest of her people. She says a war is fought between the drow beneath the surface and Suldanessellar, her peoples' home. It is the first time she's mentioned her kin. But it is distant. So distant. I think it is a point of reference. The bodies have begun piling in. A third portal has been established, and her golems work tirelessly to retrieve them, and create new golems. Their numbers grow hourly. The mockery of elven flesh, dark and fair, now serve her.

Now, she has a gift for me. An illithid the golems have captured. She has prepared a cell beside the mirror kin's, and I am to learn all I can from it, to… reach into its mind as it would reach into mine.

Of the fifteen, I have heard nothing.


	10. Entry 10

Entry 10

It is like wading through sticking, clinging fog; fog that is thicker than mud. Its tendrils cannot reach through the glass, but its mind probes as if it had tentacles inside my mind. It longs to devour my thoughts; I can feel its hunger. The mirror kin has taken its face, but I wonder how afraid he is of the illithid? My own mind resists, and I try to block its attempts to pierce my thoughts; it wants to be free, to feed. There are golems nearby, so they will prevent it, prevent me from freeing it. It knows I must kill it. She knows it too. When did I begin to serve her? Through the illithid, I see more of my memories as it reaches down, breeching the barriers; it seeks to corrupt, to twist, whisper and lie, but it begins to fear me. I don't know why.

I think of the tubes, and how easily we could copy it. Its hatred transcends the glass.

I wonder at her purpose. Has she spared me? What is she fashioning me into? A mirror kin, an illithid? Could she be making me into _him_? Or something like him? Am I a weapon of her design, her intent to slay him? Or am I something else?

She tells me more, now. There are less of Bhaal's spawn left. She told me a blue dragon and a fire giant mortally wounded one another, that the giant was witched, but the magic failed after the dragon tore his head off. That an elf maiden pierced the giant's heart after sneaking into his fortress.

I asked how she knew. She shook her head, and then I asked how many were left of her fifteen. Hers, not mine. Her lips drew into a line. Perhaps she doesn't tell me as much as I think. Rat doesn't report to me any more; he occasionally speaks, but he goes to her. When did that happen? She asked what progress I had made with the illithid. I didn't answer. Then she patted my arm, and smiled slightly, saying not to give up.

I asked Rat if the golems brought back only the dead. He looked uncomfortable. I told him that I knew the broken tubes had been repaired. He scurried off before I could make further inquiries. He must fear her more than me. Had she perfected the death ritual? Could she be using it to sustain herself? Once, I would have questioned; now, I would not be surprised.

She lets me see our child sometimes. Lets. Our girl is beautiful. She has her mother's hair and eyes mixed with my own. There is a playful steak to her; she reminds me of Imoen. But then she looks serious, and I am reminded of her mother, or perhaps myself. Did I lose my laughter? When did I last smile? She blows bubbles, and smiles at me, gripping my finger in her little hand. I could not imagine anyone hurting her, but how strong is she? Is she truly real? She feels real. If I am Bhaal's spawn… then I am nothing but a lesser copy, just as our child's mother is.

How does she feel about the drow, I wonder?


	11. Entry 11

Entry 11

Suldanessellar has fallen. It trees have been fired, and its heart, the elves' 'tree of life' has been felled. In her hand, she holds its fruit. She has planted one with the dryads, and one in her forest. The last she keeps in a jar. Aloud, I wondered why her why she had not put that in the tube, and she gave me a grim look. Had I crossed a line? Then she asked after the illithid. I had taken its face, its thoughts, and soon, I would take its life, I retorted, abruptly angry. On reflection, it occurred to me that my anger had been building for a while; she looked mildly surprised, then saddened, as though I had struck her. But if I had struck her, broken her lip, I doubt she would have shown any more than my words. Surprising me, she took my fingers in her hands, and squeezed, then sat beside me and asked what was wrong.

I told her. I told her everything. How I had been kept inside here, how everyone answered to her, but never to me, how she kept secrets. She stared, then laughed. Is that what I was worried over, she wanted to know, then smoothed my hair. I was free to leave whenever I wished; had I wanted to visit the mountain fortress I could have done so at any time, or travelled with the goblins to Suldanessellar. I doubted the last very much, and her lips twitched. "Under guard", she added more firmly. I asked how many golems we had now; a hundred, two hundred? Two thousand, was her answer. Two _thousand_? When, how, what? She kissed me, and told me everything was under control. That everything would be ready soon.

What would be ready soon?

Her smile was the same as the one she had first given me.

I told her I wanted Imoen.

That made her stop. Slowly, carefully, she asked who Imoen was to me. Perhaps she did not know everything after all? I told her she was the girl who _he_ had captured alongside me. She shook her head, saying our agents – our – had heard no word from her. She would investigate. Then she touched my cheek; why had I not simply asked earlier?

I answered I wasn't sure what she would do. Sadness held her gaze, and she asked if I still didn't trust her, after all we'd been through. I hesitated. Then her smile returned, and she told me it was understandable, even wise. I remember shivering in spite of myself, and her touch returned. I was not her enemy, she told me, nor her sword to be thrust at her foe. I would do that for myself.

When I demanded how, she told me we'd spoken enough, her finger silencing my opening lips. Then she disrobed.

What was her purpose? To control me? Or did she want my touch? Did she think I wanted hers? But there was something comforting; as we lay there, her finger ran along my hair, flicking up my fringe, and she kissed the tip of my ear, my jaw, my neck, my lips. She rested her cheek against my chest, made herself vulnerable, but how vulnerable? Her legs shifted under mine, and I wondered if she questioned if I could snap her neck, if I would ever bring violence against her? Our eyes met. She knew. She knew my mind, knew my thoughts, but I could not pierce hers. Her hand ran down my chest, and she rose. I began to rise with her, but she pushed me back down. Slowly, calmly, she climbed on top of me, kissed my brow, and then over me.

She was trusting me as much as I trusted her. Her violence would be as great as my own, greater, perhaps. But it was not directed at me, might never be directed at me.

So why had she made me her lover? She stopped, glanced over her shoulder, and smiled, inviting me to bathe with her. I gave up. I might never understand her mind, or her heart, if she had one.


	12. Entry 12

Entry 12

It didn't take long after that. The last of the Bhaalspawn fell. A warlord from a monastery poured his mercenaries and monks out into the desert, and battled against a host of drow. By the end, neither remained standing, the broken knife of the elf maiden's in the warlord's throat. Her windpipe was crushed, and she fell away, choking. The golems retrieved her, one's hand around her throat. It was the only thing keeping her alive. She wound up in the illithid's cage. Her name was "Illasera."

I found myself intrigued. I stood in front of her, sat in front of her. At first, she paced, then glared. She never made a sound. Like a tigress, she prowled. I took her face, crept into her thoughts, into her dreams. I felt the bloodlust, the rage, the… voice in her driving her to kill. I drew back, and woke with a start.

My lover's hand touched my shoulder. Then she stared into my eyes. "Go to her," she said, half advising, half commanding. "Touch her as you did me." I could not believe what I was hearing her. Then she looked in the direction of the tubes' chamber and I understood. I wasn't sure I could, but her hand squeezed, and her eyes were reassuring. I felt sick. Before I could say 'I can't', she told me in a low voice that I wasn't the first to lie with her, that our captor had done so many, many times. That the spawn in the cage was a shadow, a copy, and all I would be doing is making another copy, a copy we would use to our ends.

I told her 'no', and turned away. She struck me. It was the first time she had ever raised her hand to me, but she kept her palm open. She told me not to be a fool, or did I want to face our captor myself? My blood ran cold, and I froze. The shadow in the cage could not be permitted to live, and neither could our captor. His own tubes would be turned against him.

I couldn't speak. Anger held her, and finally, she reached for a pot. It took me a while to grasp her meaning; she just stared at me until I succumbed to her bidding.

I had lost any control over this place.


	13. Entry 13

Entry 13

He was strong, cold, and fast. His mother had been dubbed 'the quick', but he was quicker, faster. A shadow. He could take the faces of others, read the thoughts of others, and he was under _her_ control. He wore the same slave crystal as the golems, a gem set inside his heart.

I didn't ask how she knew where our captor was. I wasn't surprised when she returned to inform me that Illasera's spawn had fallen. Then she told me so had our captor. Two thousand golems had descended on him, and tore him to pieces. I… felt numb at the news. Then she had kissed me, and told me she had another gift for me. Her eyes, previously joyful, were saddened. Imoen, it seemed, had been consigned to an island, in an 'asylum' called 'Spellhold'. They found her vacant, without life, sallow, like my lover's copies.

I never knew how she had found out, but I didn't care. I asked for her to be returned, and she agreed, but kissed me first, asking if I was sure. I nodded.

Then she was walked in. She… was not herself. I found myself crushed; there were no more words to write.

Our captor had a 'sister', the mistress of the vampires who had taken us. My lover found her in the burnt out ruins of the tree of life. She danced over her brother's mutilated corpse. The golems seized her.

The death ritual was complete. The vampire died screaming as her stolen soul was torn from her and returned to Imoen. My lover turned to me and said she was sorry she could not return my own soul, that it had been lost with Irenicus, our captor. She also said that the one she was copied from was dead. She took my hand. There was one last thing to be done. Taking me to the jar where she kept the fruit from the tree of life, she held it aloft, and said it might have the power to restore one of us. I asked what the point of it was, why everything had happened. Imoen was the last Bhaalspawn, and our captor's plans were dust.

She looked surprised. Finally, she told me that our captor had intended to become a god by draining the tree of life; she thought I had known. That his soul had been stripped from him. Then she glanced at Imoen, who had crept along to the threshold. I could kill her, my lover commented, and I might become a god. Or Imoen could kill me, and perhaps become a god.

What of our daughter? I wondered.

Our lover smiled sadly. Then I finally understood. My Grimoire was my phylactery, but hers was our child; if she fell, she would not be returned, but part of her would live on. I studied her. She studied me. Imoen waited, watching.

After everything… I wasn't ready to become a god, not yet. Besides, were there not two trees of life planted? I glanced towards Illasera's cage several walls away. With the magic of this place, could we not sustain ourselves long enough to let them reach maturity?

Her smile was no longer sad.

…We never did find those air elementals or those demons. Later on, Imoen and Rat teamed up. By then, I had found myself with a new gift: sunshine, rain, wind and snow.


End file.
